


see you as the next in line (1/1)

by la_victorienne



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-23
Updated: 2010-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-26 08:49:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victorienne/pseuds/la_victorienne





	see you as the next in line (1/1)

_**see you as the next in line (1/1)**_  
 **title** : see you as the next in line  
 **rating** : r  
 **pairing** : arthur/eames/ariadne  
 **spoilers** : none glaring, though assume references to the full film  
 **disclaimer** : all hail nolan, dreamer extraordinaire.  
 **writer's note** : this is another fic I can exclusively blame [](http://reinventweather.livejournal.com/profile)[**reinventweather**](http://reinventweather.livejournal.com/) for; the original setup was entirely her idea--I have simply done my best to put it into words.  
 **word count** : 3,502  
 **summary** : In which Arthur & Eames have something of a secret, Arthur & Ariadne go on a date, and Ariadne & Eames eat Indian food. Also, there is porn.

  
"Nervous?" Eames asks, watching Arthur pick out a tie. "You know there's no reason to be. I'm sure she can't be more difficult to charm than you."

"Thank you, Eames, for the absolutely unnecessary reassurance. I am not nervous, for the record."

Eames hums knowingly. "Of course you're not. It's only the first first date you've had in over a decade."

Arthur pins him with a truly scathing glare. Eames doesn't blink, just waits. "It is not a date, first or otherwise."

"So you keep saying. Wear the silver with the blue pinstripe, it's my favourite."

"I'm not sure that's really the recommendation you think it is," Arthur grumbles, but puts the tie on all the same. "And anyway, she's visiting and I told her I'd take her to dinner if she came. That's all."

Eames arches an eyebrow and picks up Arthur's cufflinks, fastening each wrist, lingering on the pulse points. "Very well. You win, it's not a date. But if, over the course of the evening, you find it has become one, you owe me an I told you so."

Arthur harrumphs irritably. "Fine," he concedes. "But it isn't a date."

"Of course not," Eames agrees, and pulls him in for a kiss. "Now go on, before I muss you irreparably and make you late."

"Still not a date," Arthur calls as he heads out the door. Eames just chuckles to himself and picks up the Guardian crossword.

"Not a date, my balls."

  
It's a date.

Arthur realizes this halfway through, as he contemplates asking for the dessert menu, but he supposes the I told you so can wait until he gets back. Ariadne is smiling at him, gesturing wildly, the silver pendant around her neck twinkling as she builds skyscrapers with a few quick waves of her fingers.

Their knees brush under the table.

Yes. Definitely getting dessert.

"So how are you?" she prompts. "You can't possibly have a life more boring than mine, fresh out of grad school and as yet unemployed. Saito's been making noises, but I can't imagine what he'd do with an architect—or why he's bothering with me directly."

"You'd be surprised," Arthur counters. "Proclus owns more companies than Eames has fake identities."

She laughs, a breathless whoop. "And how many fake identities does he have? Professional curiosity only, I swear."

"A great many," Arthur replies dryly. "You should take Saito's job offer. Where would he send you?"

"Here, actually," she admits. "London. I meant to ask you where I should start looking for apartments, since you seem to have set up shop here."

He reaches across the table and lays a hand on her wrist. "Take the job, Ariadne. I'll find the apartment."

The smile she gives him in response is so brilliant, he thinks Eames' gloating might end up being worth it. His fingers linger on the curve of her wrist until she blushes—oh yes, definitely worth it. He's missed this, he realizes, missed the anticipation, the wondering if he's said and done the right things. It's a challenge, and he has always loved to tackle a challenge. He pulls away, lifts his glass. "To the future. Now let's celebrate, and get dessert."

When she kisses him outside the lobby of her hotel, she tastes like chocolate and strawberries. "Goodnight," she whispers, dancing out of his reach. "I'll call you."

"Goodnight," he replies, nodding once, holding her gaze until she disappears. He owes Eames an I told you so.

  
The back of his neck is still flushed when he gets home.

"I _told_ you so," Eames crows, hopping from one foot to the other in a truly embarrassing display. "Arthur and Ari, sitting in a tree."

"You forget that marriage is a fairly integral ingredient to that tedious rhyme, Eames. And as far as I know, bigamy is still illegal." He arches an eyebrow, taking off his coat. Eames has come closer, hopping less and less with every step.

"You could always divorce me," he offers, looking so suddenly, uncomfortably vulnerable that Arthur's jaw starts to ache.

"Don't be ridiculous," he says matter-of-factly, pressing his hands to either side of Eames' face. "We're coming up on twelve years, in November. What the hell kind of gentleman would I be if I skipped out on that?"

Eames cracks a smile, as intended. "D'you even know what the twelfth anniversary is, darling?"

 _Silk_ , Arthur thinks. "No, but that's all right," he says instead. "I have plenty of time to find out."

"So you have," Eames agrees, before pressing a small, soft kiss to the corner of Arthur's mouth.

"You can do better than that," Arthur sighs, and Eames obliges, pressing closer, opening his mouth, pinning Arthur against the door.

"You taste like chocolate," Eames purrs, his hands stroking across Arthur's cheekbones. Arthur just sinks his teeth into Eames' shoulder, and there are no more coherent sentences for quite a long time.

  
"She's moving to London," Arthur says later, sleepy and sated. "I think we might go out again."

Eames whuffles noncommittally into his hair.

"You could come, if you wanted, maybe. I mean, we talked about it once."

"So we did," Eames mumbles. "And while I certainly take your point, darling, do you think we could perhaps discuss the logistics of beginning a triad relationship with Ariadne when I'm not in a post-orgasmic haze?"

Arthur rolls over, bullying his knee in between Eames' legs. "Yes," he decides. "We can talk about it tomorrow. Go to sleep, Mr. Arthur."

Eames grins; Arthur can feel it against his eyelid. "Go to sleep, Mr. Eames."

  
"Well, it's not quite Russell Square or Notting Hill—but will it do?"

Ariadne doesn't answer—she's too busy running her hands over every surface of the Marylebone apartment, mouth agape. "Jesus, Eames," she finally says. "How in the hell did you know about this?"

"Friend of a friend," he says, shrugging. "When Arthur said you were coming I thought this might be the kind of place you'd want to be."

"You were _right_ ," she assures him, taking a running leap into his arms and hugging tightly. "Thank you."

"Well, of course, bit," he says mildly. "It was really nothing. Come on, I'll buy you lunch."

She stops short. "Eames—that would be nice, and I'm not saying I'm not interested, but you should probably know I'm sort of seeing someone. Arthur, I mean. I'm sort of—dating Arthur."

Eames squints, then thinks of Cobb. "He didn't tell you, did he? Sneaky bugger, sends me to do the apartment, sends me to do all the work. Come on, come on. I know you're seeing Arthur."

She goggles at him. "You mean he's told you?"

Eames inclines his head. "Well, you don't live with someone for fourteen years and not know when they take a bird to dinner. Would you come on? There's a restaurant down the way I like. Arthur and I are a few tube stops down. Close enough to walk, when the weather's fine."

"I'm sorry," Ariadne says, although she's allowed him to tuck her hand in the crook of his arm. "Did you say fourteen years?"

"And in the civil register for nearly as long," Eames agrees. "Arthur doesn't talk about it much, but it's no real secret. The Cobbs were our witnesses—Dominick proposed after our reception. Now _come_ , Ariadne. You are dating Arthur and I am dating you—or I will be, if you ever let me buy you lunch."

He doesn't hold it against her when she can't find much else to talk about over the Indian food. It's Arthur's fault, anyway, and Eames tells him so, after he's gotten Ariadne back to her hotel (and possibly kissed her silly in the taxi). "Poor girl didn't know what had hit her, Arthur, you didn't think to maybe warn her, a little?"

Arthur smirks. "And take all the fun away from you? Never. How did it go?"

Eames flops onto the sofa, butting his head into Arthur's lap—"I swear, who needs a dog with you around," Arthur says, and Eames resists the urge to yap and slobber on Arthur's trousers—and toeing off his shoes. "Fine. After she processed the—invitation a little more fully, things went really well." His voice drops to a whisper. "I think this might work, Arthur. I really do."

"I hope so," Arthur replies, running a hand through Eames' hair once, an indulgent concession to Eames' pursuit of affection. "I truly hope so. There's something about her, you know? Something—"

"That makes you feel complete," Eames finishes. "Yes, I know."

He watches the news sideways, Arthur's trousers against his cheek, until he's finally dozing. "Come on, you lump," Arthur says.

"She smells like lavender," Eames replies.

They don't have to use the PASIV to share the same dream.

  
And so it begins—they help Ariadne move into her new apartment, Arthur helps her sort out her Oyster card and the best route to work, Eames takes her to the Courtauld Gallery in Somerset House, already planning his own version of _Bar at the Folies-Bergères_. They take turns, each showing her their favourite parts of the city, spoiling her rotten—well, Eames spoils her. Arthur would never admit to such dotage. (He is, however, the one who buys her a private flight on the Eye, including champagne—claiming it's more practical to have the privacy all the while).

Winter falls quickly in the city—one minute Arthur and Eames are having Ariadne for an anniversary and Thanksgiving dinner (for the Americans), the next the signs for Hyde Park's winter wonderland are everywhere, and Eames is making plaintive noises.

"So take Ariadne," Arthur says. "She'd love it. It's her first year in the city. I have work to do anyway—and you know I can't focus when you're restless."

Eames grins like the idea hasn't already occurred to him. "Arthur, that is a magnificent idea. I don't know what I would do without you."

"Crash and burn, most likely," Arthur replies, just to be cruel. "Now go call, before you forget."

"Hey," Eames says. Arthur looks up. "Thank you, Mr. Eames."

The tips of Arthur's ears turn pink.

Eames slides out of bed early on Sunday morning, pacing restlessly.

"Now who's nervous?" Arthur asks, nose first into a mug of coffee. "You know you shouldn't be. You said it yourself—she's a great deal easier to charm than me."

"What if she doesn't like it? I know how _you_ feel about Christmas, but not Ariadne."

Arthur shrugs. "Buy her a Santa hat and several cups of mulled wine, she'll have a ball. And don't forget to breathe, Eames. It's just a date."

"Ha, ha, bloody ha," Eames parrots. "I still just want her to like it."

She likes it.

Arthur is on the couch in the living room when they get back, scrutinizing spreadsheets with Bach playing and the television on mute. Eames is laughing, stomping his feet, Ariadne behind—must have gone well, Arthur thinks, and shuts the computer.

"Have a seat, bit, I'll open a bottle of wine. Hiya, Arthur," Eames says, taking Ariadne's coat and pecking Arthur on the head as he goes by.

Arthur pats the seat next to him. "How was the festival?"

Something happens, as she starts to talk, gaining momentum with every word. Arthur sees it, right in front of his eyes—telling a story about Eames nearly sending a whole line of ice skaters flying, she slots herself right into the spot they've been carving out for her, and she fits. Arthur almost swallows his tongue when he realizes it, suddenly seeing the places she will soon fill, the seat at the table, the dresser drawers, the medicine cabinet, and he feels a kick of want low in his belly that turns him almost upside down.

Arthur's still staring when Eames returns, rapt under the lilt of Ariadne's voice and the curves of her slender wrists. Eames just watches, letting her finish the story of his ice skating prowess before rejoining them.

"Honestly," she's saying. "I can't think of anyone who skates as badly as you do."

"I'll have you know that I am a very good ice skater, bit, just not after three hours' worth of mulled wine and Irish coffee. You should be glad I was upright, today." He wedges himself between Ariadne and the armrest and starts to pour, comfortable and easy.

"Upright my ass," Ariadne retorts. "Unless all that weaving was just—just a ploy to get me to hold your hand, I can't believe I fell for that, you rotten con man!"

Arthur arches an eyebrow. "Oh, you hadn't heard?"

Eames just laughs, handing glasses round and throwing an arm around her shoulders, tucking her into him. And there it is, Arthur thinks—the place where she fits, her socked feet under his thigh, her head on Eames' shoulder. It is _precisely_ where she is supposed to be.

There's really no reason for her to go home, after that. Eames pulls him aside when the wine is gone, one hand warm on Arthur's hip. "Tonight, maybe?"

Arthur nods. "I hope so. We have to make sure—I don't want to rush her. But I hope so."

Eames kisses his temple, firm and insistent. "Good. I love this—but I miss you, you know?"

Arthur catches a glimpse of Ariadne watching them, and smiles briefly, a flash of dimple. "Trust me, I know." It's been torture sleeping next to Eames every night and not getting any, but if things go as well as he hopes, it'll be worth it, worth every ache and yearning. "How do you feel about staying?" he asks, padding into the living room, Eames a half-step behind. "We thought—well. I'd be happy to walk you home, of course, but you should know—you're welcome, if you want."

She licks her lips reflexively and Arthur can't help himself, stepping forward as she's stepping across the sofa and leaping up into his arms, pressing his lips to hers. He hears the low sound Eames makes behind them and walks backwards into his body, leaning to the side to give Eames his own access to her mouth.

"Is that a yes?" Eames whispers, one hand on Arthur's back, warmth seeping through his shirt.

"It's a yes," she sighs. Arthur thinks he might be as happy as the day he married Eames.

They've agreed to let this first time be about her entirely, but Arthur can't help the little sound he makes when Eames slips a hand into his waistband. It's impossible to explain—Eames simply knows him, inside and out, so well that they hardly have to speak to communicate any more. He bucks back into the touch, shifting Ariadne in his arms in the process.

"Now, now, darling," Eames murmurs. "Let's get everyone horizontal, first."

"I'd have a lot easier time doing that if you quit teasing, Mr Arthur," he snaps, and Ariadne laughs prettily at it.

He finds himself only vaguely mollified when Eames says "As you wish, Mr Eames," and withdraws his hand, only to push Arthur further into the corridor, steering the three of them into the bedroom.

Arthur lays Ariadne on the coverlet and steps back for a moment, admiring the view. Eames, for his part, pinches Arthur's ass and launches himself onto the bed next to her, fingers fumbling the tiny buttons on her blouse. "Someone's in a hurry," Arthur quips.

"I know I am," Ariadne pants breathlessly. "I mean, I know you guys live together and all, but some of us haven't been laid in _months_."

Eames glances at Arthur. Ariadne follows his gaze. Arthur looks away, down at the buttons on his shirt.

"You're shitting me," Ariadne says. Arthur focuses on his hands; there's a button loose at the bottom, probably thanks to Eames. "You haven't had sex, have you? Not since you started dating me?"

Eames, thank heavens, steps in front of the bullet. "Well, of course not, bit," he explains gently. "It was an all or nothing sort of thing. You know."

The way Ariadne stares at the both of them suggests that no, no, she did not, and Arthur feels a warm flush start to rise on his cheeks that has nothing to do with arousal. "We just," he starts, and his voice is like gravel. "We wanted it to be right."

The smile that breaks across her face settles an anxiety he had only been dimly aware of, resolving the ache in his shoulder-blades. She holds out a hand to him—those wrists, he thinks, and he has to wet his lips—and looks him in the eye. "Well?"

Eames and Arthur make a truly terrifying team in everything else; it only stands to reason that they are very good at this, indeed. Arthur brings her wrist to his mouth, pressing his lips on the pulse point. Eames is mouthing her jaw, still working her buttons; her other hand drifts up to grip the short bristles of his hair. Arthur hums in satisfaction, and meets Ariadne's eyes.

She lies back, pushing Eames with her. Arthur chases, laying himself out beside her, dragging a hand up to her jaw and nudging until they're nose to nose. For a moment, he just stares—he is deliberate, and likes to take his time—and then he's kissing her, pressing deep into her mouth, learning it, and she's making a truly gratifying sound.

Behind her, Eames growls, a sound Arthur is intimately familiar with. He withdraws from Ariadne's mouth, leaning across her, parting Eames' lips with his tongue—and there's that gratifying sound from her again, a little half-meow that rockets straight to his cock and—yeah, he's taken enough _time_.

The rest of their clothes are the work of moments. Eames laughs at him, just once, when he shoves the tangled mess of all their trousers to the floor—the last time he'd been in that much of a hurry had been a very long time ago, and he knows Eames knows it.

"Wh—" Ariadne starts, but Eames quiets her with a kiss as Arthur trails his fingers between her legs.

"Tell you later," Eames murmurs to her—and Arthur knows he will, late into the night, because Eames always has to take a leak around four and Ariadne will wake when the bed moves, unused to the rhythms of another body—and then grins wickedly when Arthur finds what he's looking for and Ariadne's hips jerk between them. His fingers curl up, and in, thumb rubbing small circles; Ariadne cries out, breath quickening.

Eames stills for a moment, looking down at her, before looking back up at Arthur. "God, she's lovely," he breathes, and looks back down, sucking a kiss into the curve of her shoulder.

"Yes," Arthur agrees, and it's on again, the moment giving way to familiar impatience as Ariadne keens, fingers groping blindly. After that it's all hushed whispers, "do you want" and "please, right there" and "oh god" and "Eames." Arthur can't quite believe his luck, pressing into Eames pressing into Ariadne, and he has to stop a moment, close his eyes and breathe before he can start to move. And Eames' back is gorgeous, muscles bunching below him and Ariadne's face is blissful, her eyes listing shut and Arthur can't help but think of all the things he wants to do to them, all the ways he wants to have them. He wants to lay her out, slide into her from behind while Eames licks into her from the front, her mouth on Eames' cock; he wants to fuck her with Eames, wants to feel their dicks slide tight against each other as she writhes between them; wants to fuck Eames' mouth as Ariadne rides him, behind. His mind is alight with it, sparking with the possibilities, and oh, how Eames will appreciate his _imagination_ now.

He bends towards Eames, his chest slick against Eames' back, biting at his cheek for a kiss, and Ariadne moans. "Open your eyes, Ariadne," he rasps out, as Eames' tongue pushes messily past his lips, and when she comes, she shakes so hard he can feel it in the backs of Eames' knees. And that's got Eames coming, swearing a blue streak and clenching around Arthur, and the next thing Arthur knows he's come so hard he's seeing _stars_.

"I hope you know," Ariadne mentions casually, when they've gotten themselves rearranged in the bed, Ariadne half-atop Eames with Arthur curled in behind her, "that I am never letting either of you leave this bed, _ever_."

And Eames laughs, his voice warm and drowsy, and Arthur smiles, the arm he's thrown over Ariadne's waist tracing circles into Eames' stomach, and he says, "Yeah. Yeah, I think we could live with that," and it is supremely easy, easier than with Somnacin, to let the gentle rhythms of both Eames' and Ariadne's breath lull him deeply to sleep.


End file.
